


A Bird Cage

by AsterFlower



Category: Original Work, The Long Leash Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Clones, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, F/M, Female Protagonist, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, Master/Servant, Master/Slave, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Outer Space, Psychological Trauma, Science Fiction, Sexual Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-07-12 10:16:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19944517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsterFlower/pseuds/AsterFlower
Summary: Backed into a corner by her half-brother, Ophelia Cillian is forced to become his puppet in The Long Leash, a human trafficking ring. Conflicted by the moral repugnance of her new life, Ophelia attempts to rehabilitate her new Assets however she can as she adjusts to her task to collecting an Asset from each Category.But while her brother sees her as a mere tool, Ophelia is determined to rid herself of his influence. Can she gain the influence and political support she needs to be rid of him once and for all? Or will she be forever doomed to a different kind of subjugation with her slaves?(Inspired by "The Long Leash" by Ryoko21. Although familiarity with it isn't strictly required to understand and enjoy this work, it is highly recommended that Ryoko21's spectacular series is read before this one!)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Long Leash : Perfect Zero](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3162038) by [Ryoko21](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryoko21/pseuds/Ryoko21). 
  * Inspired by [The Long Leash: Broken Doll](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5333078) by [Ryoko21](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryoko21/pseuds/Ryoko21). 
  * Inspired by [The Long Leash: Interlude](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8191511) by [Ryoko21](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryoko21/pseuds/Ryoko21). 
  * Inspired by [The Long Leash: Irritated Dragon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13160676) by [Ryoko21](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryoko21/pseuds/Ryoko21). 



> Hello everyone!
> 
> This is my first work on AO3, self-indulgently written and inspired by "The Long Leash" series. Please note that this is a work inspired by Ryoko21's series - in essence, it's a fanfiction of that universe. As such, all events in this work are non-canon: ideas pertaining to the inner workings of Leash society explored in this fic may even directly contradict or be incompatible with the series, depending on the events that unfold in its future.
> 
> With that said, I hope you enjoy this fic! I had a really enjoyable time with brainstorming ideas and characters, so I hope some of it comes to vague fruition. The work is un-beta'd, and though I've done my best to check any grammar mistakes, I would be very grateful if you could let me know if you spot any. I'd also really appreciate any comments and feedback, as I love discussing plot points and conjecture with you all! And any friendly criticisms will be warmly taken on board.
> 
> Thank you and enjoy!

Ophelia Cillian sat in the pristine white antechamber of her half-brother's ship, breathing in the clinically cold air. Behind her, the thrum of an air conditioner whirred incessantly, denying her a semblance of peace. In her lap, she fingered a cream-coloured envelope, waiting. She would suffocate in this room before long, she thought.

She had met her father's passing with a certain numbness, perhaps even a resigned sense of regret, but he had hardly been present in her life, let alone in the years preceeding his death. Ophelia had not spoken to him in eight years, and given their complicated history, she had good reason for doing so. Yet she had even better reason for not contacting her brother, with his dangerous reputation and tendency for ruthlessness.

Two months after their father's death and five years since they had last spoken, he had summoned her to his private ship. That fact alone was almost enough to terrify Ophelia.

Her brother, the trickster. _Joker_ , they called him in underground circles. What could he possibly want with his estranged, ruined sister?

The door of the antechamber slid aside, and through it stepped a tall, dark-haired man. Completing his tailored black suit was a pair of silken white gloves, as if he were a butler from a time long passed. "Miss Cillian," he said without inflection. "My Master is ready for you now."

-

"Ophelia, my dearest sister! It's been far too long, hasn't it?" Vasilis Macmillan did not rise from his seat as he greeted his sister after years of void. From his piercing blue eyes to his honey-coloured hair, Ophelia could not help but think he looked exactly the same.

"What did you call me here for, Vasilis?"

"You wound me, sister," he returned with a lop-sided grin. "Is it not natural for me to reach out to family after our father's passing? Sit."

Ophelia eyed the two servants who stood at attention against the wall behind Vasilis, their hands clasped behind her backs. She sat reluctantly.

"I don't have time for your games."

"Oh, but you'll make time," Vasilis said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "How has your lucrative career been treating you?"

She met him with a stony stare, and did not reply. The silence stretched out awkwardly before Vasilis tired of it.

"Fine, then. I'll keep this short and sweet. Father left the bulk prisons to you in his will - hand control of them to me."

Ophelia almost laughed from the shock. Their father had left everything - everything, from his assets to his companies to his private prisons - to Vasilis. All he had left her were three bulk prisons on crime-infested satellites as a marker of shame, a reminder of her past. Through whatever dubious manoeuvring, he had tied them permanently to her existence: she could not sell them on or be rid of them when she had tried, and simultaneously, ensured any and all profits from them did not find their way to her. 

In short, he had forced upon her control of essentially worthless prisons to lambaste her as a failure, even in death. 

"The prisons are self-autonomous. They're fully-functioning without need for any human's control."

Vasilis' expression turned cold. "You miss the point, sister. I would like control of them, and you will learn how serious I am about getting it."

She didn't doubt it. The cogs in Ophelia's mind began to whirr. Vasilis had everything; swathes of money, his time occupied by running the expansive private ship manufacturing company he owned, political power and influence by providing the elite and governments with his products. A few worthless prisons - what would he want them for? The only benefit of them would be knowledge of inmates. People. Access to manpower. But he couldn't possibly be short of that. Vasilis Macmillan - the name evoked a dark reputation. Corruption. Connections to the criminal underworld. Suddenly, it clicked into place - criminal activity.

Vasilis was right in that he would stop at nothing to get what he wanted, and Ophelia was in no position to deny it from him if he were to fight for it. But whatever he had planned, she refused to be ignorant.

"You want the prisons because you want access to the inmates, but you already have control of several private prisons. So the unique factor that you would really stand to gain out of this is manpower - people who wouldn't be noticed if they went missing. I have no love for either of you; I'd be happy to wash my hands of the prison and the both of you. But I refuse to do anything without knowing your intentions." She said eventually.

Vasilis smiled. "You make quite the assumption, that all I want is the prisons. Actually, I need far more than that from you. In fact, your overall co-operation is what I need." He slid a black file across the table. Ophelia opened it cautiously. On the first page, accompanying a logo she had never seen before, were the words The Long Leash. She began to read, and as realisation struck, she felt repulsion coursing through each fibre of her being. She had always known her brother was vermin, but never would she have suspected that he was quite this bad. 

"Oh, don't look like that. You'd be complicit, but you'd hardly be actually doing any of the dirty work. What I'm offering you is a lifetime of comfort on a silver platter, an sweet escape from the poverty that's plagued you, a record wiped clean. And all I ask in return is for jurisdiction over an entity you were never going to touch. Isn't that a sweet deal?"

Ophelia didn't deign him with a response.

"You need to be a member for it to work. But to everyone else, you'll have no apparent connection to me. Of course, you'd act as an extra pair of eyes and ears to me, but outside of that..." His expression was truly insufferable. "Of course, if you need some extra incentive, I'm sure you're quite curious as to how your mother is doing." Another file glided across the table, only this time, in a deep blue. Silver Pine Hospital.

"Take all the time you'd like to think about it, dear sister. But you will not leave my ship until I hear a favourable answer."


	2. Chapter 1 - Ophelia

I don't recognise my surroundings as I wake. It's been like this ever since I started to live in this wretched ship, even though it's been more than four days. The springy softness of the round bed in the master bedroom is far too indulgent, too luxurious for me to feel comfortable with - not after living in a pod apartment on Satellite 19 for so long. I stare at the blank white of the ceiling for longer than I should before I roll out of bed. Today is the day, after all - the day that I select my first asset in the Leash.

Originally, Vasilis had chosen one of his own slaves for me. The gesture would have seemed inoffensive enough if I didn't know him: no doubt, in that scenario, my every action would be monitored. Yet when I had insisted on selecting one myself, he had acquiesced faster than expected. 

The very idea that I'm even beginning to think of humans in terms of merchandise makes me taste bile.

Still, I hardly have a choice, I remind myself. But even that offers little comfort or excuse when I am complicit, acting with autonomy, even if my hand has been forced. Were it not for my mother, I would have contemplated death more seriously over the past few days - though perhaps that seems extreme. In truth, Vasilis is disgustingly correct in that the situation he's placed me in is an exponential step-up in my quality of life. A life free from the burden of worrying over how to make ends meet. If only I could just accept the situation - indulge myself, free from burdens of morality as the other owners are - then wouldn't that rid me of suffering? Would that be better for the assets I am to own? I shudder. I couldn't destroy a piece of myself like that. 

Besides, to contemplate net suffering and net happiness is a fruitless endeavour; such things are far too unquantifiable to do anything but go in circles.

I opt to dress myself with a simple elegance: a long, A-line navy skirt with cream-coloured roses embroidered along the hem; a high-collared white ruffle blouse with a rose-gold brooch; wedges with white snakeskin heels. Until I can judge how ostentatious the other owners tend to be with their clothing, I expect a tasteful modesty will go further than displaying my newfound wealth in a single outfit.

Not that I expect to meet any other owners today, with how surreptitious and disreputable my destination seems to be.

When I had refused Vasilis' offer, he had said it would be atypical to obtain my first asset from a dealer. Dealers were the designated retailers of assets, with one for each category: domestic, pleasure, scholar, combat and covert. Generally, the Leash designates a first asset with the expectation it will be quickly discarded, but given my familial connection, the rules are different for me. 

It. _They_. 

"If you say you wanted to pick your first personally, it wouldn't be too strange - it's rare, but it occasionally happens when owners bring in family. Most importantly, the dealer wouldn't ask too many questions. It'd be a hell of a lot more expensive, though," Vasilis had explained disinterestedly. With no fortune of my own, my half-brother would be funding me, and I couldn't imagine money was an issue for him. 

"Is there an alternative, then?" I'd asked.

"Of course, dearest sister," his face morphed into a cat-like smile. "And it sounds like a lot more fun. Every so often, the Leash will run The Auction - it's only available a few, sporadic times throughout the year, and nobody knows why. Essentially, it's to get rid of a pool of expendable Leash-obtained assets. They're usually defective, injured, reclaimed after an owner's death, and so on. The cheapest assets you can get, bought for barely more than the Labs, but only a handful of owners ever go near it. Broken assets aren't good for much, and the ones from The Auction are certainly never heard from again. But hey - maybe you can satisfy your moral proclivities by playing the hero. Doesn't it sound perfect for you, Ophelia?"

Shortly after, he'd handed a private ship to me. I move to the kitchen, using the sleek black coffee machine to fix myself a mocha. Fitted with endless appliances and luxuries, I truly feel out of place in all rooms of the ship. Redecoration - I'll do that, soon.

The ship's course is plotted towards Satellite 37, the location of The Auction. Apparently, between Red Seven - an infamous casino ship - and a nearby shopping mall, a back alley leading towards one of the storage holds is where I'll find it. I need only my Owner's key for access.

The ship docks itself in the hangar of the Satellite, and I'm thankful that Vasilis had the foresight to give me a ship installed with top of the range self-piloting technology. Combined with some tinkering from one of his assets, it was fairly simple to get here. 

I take a breath, check my belongings for my Owner's Key, and prepare myself for The Auction.


	3. Chapter 2 - Ophelia

As described, an alleyway to the left of the shopping mall's entrance leads deep into the outermost ring of the satellite. At the end I find a blank, grey metal door with "STAFF ONLY" listed on it: no windows. No doubt it leads to a genuine storage hangar behind the mall. To its left, an identical, unlabelled door. I swipe my keycard on the reader next to it, and, with a green light and a click, it opens.

I remind myself to breathe. Behind it, anti-climactically, is another long corridor: plain white with glaring LED lights, lined with metal doors on either side. There's not a soul to be found, which probably owes itself to the specific time I was given. I walk down, searching for the door labelled 8C, which is so far that I think it must be directly next to Red Seven.

8C is where The Auction is held, located at the end of the corridor and around the corner. I stand outside the door with bated breath, and, after a moment's hesitation, swipe my key once more.

I don't quite know what I expected - some sort of theatre or darkened room, perhaps - but when the door is opened for me to reveal a pleasant reception-like room, I can hardly hide my surprise.

The room itself is fairly small, resembling a waiting room of a clinic. The floor is fitted with a soft black carpet with a patterned cream-coloured rug in the centre. To the left, vintage red leather armchairs are arranged around small circular tables, and in the right corner is a vase of white roses and calla lilies. Fake, I note. In front of me is a long, mahogany reception desk, fitted with monitors and stationery as though it was a normal entrance to an array of offices. Behind it sits a man in his late twenties, dressed in a button-up white shirt and plain black trousers. His hair is dark and well-kept, his skin a chocolate brown, but his features fairly unremarkable. I note the edges of a purple collar showing beneath his shirt. 

He stands as I enter, hands clasped in front of him and eyes not quite meeting mine. "Greetings, Owner Cillian. It is an honour to welcome you to the auction," he says. 

I glance around, unnerved by the complete absence of people. "Yes, thank you. Will it be long before The Auction begins?"

The man looks briefly confused at my question. "It will not, Owner Cillian. The Auction is not conventional to its name. If I may, allow me to show you to an auctioning room."

I follow him to a heavy-looking wooden door. Inside, I find a smaller room in the same style as the reception with a single chair and tablet on the table. 

"Allow me to explain," he says. "You will find our catalogue of assets on the tablet. Please feel free to browse their profiles to your satisfaction, but the information provided is limited. Any profiles that interest you may be bookmarked; once you have finished browsing, please return to the home menu and select the bell icon. This will notify me, and I will bring you the full profiles of any assets you have marked. Additionally, please note that the prices of the assets are liable to change periodically - particularly towards their expiry date."

My nerves coil at the mention of an expiry date, but the explanation sounds simple enough. I nod, and with a word of thanks, the door clicks shut behind me.

The profiles on the tablet are truly minimal in the condensed information they provide. All in all, about fifty assets are listed, with the majority belonging to the combat and pleasure categories. A number provides their designation; "CB" for combat, "D" for domestic. With it is listed their approximate age range, a brief description of their colouring, dimensions, and their condition, which ranges from stable to damaged to extremely substandard. Accompanying this is a description of their temperament, which is no more than a few words: obedient, quiet, stubborn. 

Browsing through the profiles feels so detached and clinical. With only minimal information, no pictures, and no indication that these assets are human at all, I feel unsettled to a degree that disgust and repulsion has never allowed me to reach in my conjecture.

I take a moment to ground myself.

If I am going to be an owner, to breach an abhorrent line as I cross into the Leash, then I will do whatever miniscule, fleeting good I can manage. I will purchase a broken, tired slave, and help rehabilitate them to the best of my naive, inexperienced abilities. I am no hero, and I will not be their saviour, but I would offer them a life of subjugation rather than endless exploitation and pain. That is all, in my pathetic capabilities, I can do.

I begin to filter the profiles of The Auction. I remove the combat and covert categories - they seem ambitious for a first asset. Their condition must be stable or higher - my medical capabilities stop at basic first aid, and I at least want to guarantee my first asset's survival. Age range - fairly young, in the hopes of a "greater" impact, however flawed my logic in presuming that. Everything else, I leave untouched.

It leaves me with six assets: one scholarly, two domestic, three pleasure.

I bookmark all of their profiles and ring the bell, reminding myself not to bite off more than I can chew.

-

The receptionist asset returns, handing me six files before leaving politely. They're all paper - physical copies. Even the files themselves are crafted from genuine wood. Curious.

These are the files of those who have survived near to the worst the Leash has to offer: broken assets. I don't presume that I can fix them - but at least this much, this far, must be the bare minimum of what I can do.

I begin to churn through the files. They offer a much more detailed summary of the asset; any equivalent qualifications they have, their skill sets, a vague ownership history. A page with the heading "The Auction" lists their specific circumstances in becoming one of the listed profiles, as well as their injuries - enclosed photographs illustrate the extent of the damages. Most of the injuries stem from punishments; the scholarly asset made a major surgical mistake and was scarred horrifically with burns as punishment, his left eye blind. One of the pleasure assets is marred by a large gash along his face, which looks as though it could not possibly have been inflicted with anything other than a knife - with few talents outside of his category, he was discarded. The other pleasure asset is recovering from critical wounds clearly inflicted from a violent, sadistic session: the scars litter his body like a second skin. But the angles of the photograph are too evocative, too deliberate... as though he's being _advertised for more_. 

Not all of them are so terribly mutilated - some are simply being discarded in favour of newer, more talented assets - but that in itself speaks to the wasteful apathy of the Leash's owners. Without money as a concern, they toss their assets into The Auction pile as the most convenient way to be rid of them. They may not be _that_ imperfect, not _unsalvageably_ flawed, but not worth enough to go through a dealer. Why bother healing their injuries, or working around their defects, if you can avoid them altogether with another asset?

I feel bile souring my throat by the time I reach the sixth file; my instincts urge me to pick at random from the viable files, but an irrational feeling of stubbornness urges me to see this through. I knew what I was getting into from the beginning.

The final file belongs to a domestic asset, listed under the name Ash in accordance with the colouring of his hair. _Around 23 years old, 182cm, 59.6kg, good condition_. I skim the main details of his profile: three broken ribs and a swollen wrist; skills include basic household chores including cooking, cleaning and inventory management; a polite, reserved disposition. 

_Defective: Dyslexic._

Still, he's one of the most expensive assets of the group - which is, truthfully, still relatively little. Vasilis gave me a lump sum of Leash currency, and in that, gave me a general price range for a standard-skilled asset - about two or three times more than what The Auction charges. 

I let out a frustrated breath. None of the assets I've looked at appeal to me particularly, and reading the profiles has left me feeling numbly uninspired. With only their injuries to mark them as unique, they strike me as dull and vapid, and all of them are impaired in some way. Broken. I'm more out of my depth here than I'd realised. Vasilis is probably right in saying it's better to choose an asset face-to-face, with a passable foundation of skills guaranteed. Maybe it would be a cruelty for me to choose an asset from The Auction, to force one who's already endured so much suffering to navigate the Leash for years to come.

I'm about to return to my ship in defeat when my eye is caught by a section at the bottom of the domestic's profile.

_Extra Talents: ... competent piano player, basic score-reading skills, ..._

Music.

And in that single moment, I knew which asset I would take a leap of faith for.


	4. Chapter 3 - Ash

I am vaguely aware of my body, limp and leaden, being placed into a metal cylinder. Pain shoots through me as my bones are twisted in unnatural angles, my body jolted around carelessly. _Why does my chest ache when I breathe?_

I hear the slide of a metal door as it seals itself shut. _No, not again,_ I think desperately, but stringing my thoughts together is somehow a challenge. This metal coffin will surely be my grave.

My eyes will not open and my body will not move. There is nothing I can do but wait as the void envelops me once more. 

-

My head is swimming in cotton wool.

I open my eyes blearily to a stark white room. My body is cold. Beneath me, a metal slab - a bench, or a bed, maybe. I can see three, bright lamps above me - or maybe just one. Even though all I can see is blank, clinical white, I realise my vision is spinning. 

_Drugged_ , I realise belatedly. _Sedatives, or - I don't know what they've given me._

Doesn't matter, either.

-

When I next near consciousness, my eyes feel like they've been glued shut. They ache distantly, like an appendage far removed from my body.

I feel something lukewarm and wet across my face. My body shivers involuntarily, but seemingly does not possess the strength to jolt away.

I feel something brushing against my frozen fingers, and then, a hand slipped in mine.

Hands, too large to be a child's. A medic, offering me comfort in my last moments? But they are too soft, too warm, too free of calluses. 

An owner's.

The thought causes my heart to hammer in my head. I feel the blood pumping through my ears, and with each beat, repulsion coursing through me.

_Don't touch me_ , I want to gasp. _Please, please stop touching me._

I do not remember anything. 

I do not know if I should be grateful for it.


	5. Chapter 4 - Ash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, Aster here!
> 
> This is just to let you all know that updates from now on will be either on Saturday evenings. This chapter is a day early because I've been so excited to see what you all make of Ophelia's first asset, Ash, that I felt I couldn't wait. Please do let me know your first impressions of him in the comments below; it always makes me feel better reading your thoughts.
> 
> Another minor issue that the fic is having is linking the "inspired works"; I'm currently working on it, so if you see them periodically appearing and disappearing, please bear with me until I work out how to fix it.
> 
> Thank you and I hope you enjoy the chapter!

I wake slowly, like a gradual slope into consciousness. I'm tired, too tired for the leaden sensation behind my eyes to be normal, not when I can't remember where I am or how I got here. I battle my eyelids for sight, and eventually, my vision settles on my surroundings.

I'm in a spacious bedroom, with dimmed yellow lights and cream-painted walls. White-painted wood furniture decorates the room tastefully, but from the electrical outlets, concealed air-vents and efficient use of space, I realise I'm on a private ship. The room is empty.

My head _hurts_.

I've been resold, then, to someone else. Another Owner, for another self-serving purpose. I've had three Owners now, and if I've learnt anything from the ones I've been with and met, none of them are noble. None of them have any integrity. They are all flawed in some major way, just as all of the assets in the Leash are. I reconciled with that stupidly obvious point a long time ago: there was not hope for me then, and there is not now.

I remind myself of it to lower my standards. My time with my latest Owner was nothing to envy, but at least I had regular meals and a comfortable place to sleep. Before, I used to pray that life with a new Owner could be better. Now, I expect it to get worse.

So I lie there, my head throbbing. Someone - an asset or my new Owner - will come to check on me eventually. This soft, comfortable bedding I'm on is a privilege I doubt I'll continue to have, and I relish it while I can.

Officially, I think I'm supposed to make the bed and kneel by its side until someone returns, in case its my Owner. But I can't bring myself to. My head is throbbing, and I feel so very exhausted.

Another thing I've found is that new assets can never win, not really. If I were to get up, I could be lambasted for moving without permission. The orange juice beside my table is likely a juvenile test, and a cruel one.

I think of Amelie, that bright-eyed, innocent child. Where is she now?

And then, after she'd left - I don't want to think of that.

So I stare up at the ceiling, the minutes passing aimlessly. Eventually, stray thoughts stop crossing my mind, and I stop thinking. I just look. Empty. Awaiting orders.

Like any good slave.

-

I hear the glass door slide itself open, and from the corner of my eye, I see the figure of a woman walking in.

I stifle the brief spur of hope I feel - it's impossible that she's another asset, so it's very likely that she's my new Owner, and that means I may not be subject to the whims of another man, I may possibly not have to anymore-

Foolish thoughts. Gender is no indication of cruelty or the ways I can be hurt. A decreased likelihood of a few specific types of hurt isn't comforting. If she chooses, she can cause far more damage than any of my predecessors.

"You're awake," she notes as she walks in. Her voice is of a medium pitch, smooth, almost soothing. "How long has it been since you woke up?"

"I do not know, madam. Perhaps thirty minutes." My voice scrapes against my throat, hoarse, _disgusting_. I keep my eyes fixed on the ceiling, lowering them submissively as she nears; it is up to the Owner to decide if it is disrespect or not. I imagine I will be corrected immediately if it is.

"Hmm," she says, taking a seat in the armchair by the bed. She leans over and rests her elbows on its edge. I force my body to remain still. "Your name is Ash, is that correct?"

"Yes, madam." Amongst other things.

"Can you move?"

If I had such a thing as pride, I would feel insulted. Hypothetically, of course. "Yes, madam, but I have not tried."

"Would you look at me?" Her tone is gentle, not aggressive, but I hate that my body startles to attention anyway. 

I chose wrongly. I oblige, turning my head towards her. "My apologies."

Her hair is a dark brown, curled slightly, reaching no farther than her shoulders. The skin of her face and neck is smooth, unblemished, and I note a hint of powder foundation on her lower cheeks. It's understated, applied by a practised hand. Her skin shades a very light brown, the milky chocolate colour of a deep tan, though I'm sure it's natural. I don't make eye contact, but keep my eyes level enough to see that hers are grey. Strange. She's quite pretty, but at first glance, doesn't seem as well-groomed and made-up as the other female Owners I've met, who enjoy an unrestrained use of quality make-up products, permanent body alterations, and have their eyebrows plucked into string-thin lines. 

"My name is Ophelia Cillian. You are my first asset in the Leash."

A new owner, then, which is either a goldmine of luck or a cursed straw. How far I've fallen, to end up here. 

I make out the words, "It is a pleasure to be at your service, Owner Cillian. Please mould me to your preferences and use me as you see fit." Good enough. Everything I've said and done seems is suffused by the unnatural. No longer am I the picture of diligence and deference, but an asset doing the bare minimum of the motions to survive. But she's a new Owner - I don't think she can tell the difference. I hate that a part of me wants to ask for a final request, but I don't even know what I want.

"Yes," she says, in a tone half-lost in thought. "You're in my care now, Ash."

I can't be optimistic about what her care will entail.


	6. Chapter 5 - Ophelia

He seems... resigned.

Too still, like a puppet held by the tension of a chord. Too cautious, but understandably so. It finally hits me that this is going to be a lengthy road.

The Auction required thirty-six hours to prepare my order, whatever that entailed, and during that time, I had docked the ship in a private hangar on the Satellite, stocked up on basic supplies and food, and waited. With Ash's measurements, it was easy enough for me to approximate size and buy him a few sets of clothing until a better arrangement can be found. 

Four hours ago, the purple-collared asset from The Leash delivered his unconscious body to me. He was wearing loose-fitting, grey clothes made from some synthetic material, but a quick glance at his hair colour and facial structure confirmed that he was the asset that matched the profile. His body draped limply over the asset's shoulder before I directed him to the nearest guest bedroom and showed him out.

I was told my new asset would take at least three hours to wake up, and during that time, I'd prepared the ship to depart the Satellite. It's no rudimentary expense to park a ship in a private hangar, and even with my half-brother's funds, my stingy habits are deeply rooted in me now. It took a while for the ship to pressurise before I could fly it out, but with the simple trajectory and the assistance of the ship's sophisticated systems, I managed it without problems.

Then, it was merely a waiting game. I checked on him every so often, wiping a warm towel across his forehead to rid it of the sheen of sweat it had. At first, his breathing was concerningly shallow, but he soon showed signs that he was returning to consciousness. Towards the end, Ash was tossing and turning, murmuring incoherently and vaguely in pain. But for most of it, he was eerily still, almost like a statue. When I'd touched him, there had been no reaction, and his skin was cold enough to make me think of a corpse.

Now that he's awake, I notice details I hadn't before. The fact that his skin is fair, not pale, and yet his cheeks are several shades lighter than anywhere else on his body. His eyes, with sunken bags beneath them, create shadows that only highlight the thin lines of his face. High cheekbones protrude unnaturally. His hair is at least an inch longer than the photograph I saw. But, I acknowledge, if he didn't look so bone-shatteredly exhausted, he would be quite handsome.

"Do you like orange juice?" I ask. I had left a glass on the stand next to him, but - pointedly - it hadn't been touched.

"It was a pleasant luxury when I last enjoyed it, Owner Cillian," Ash says carefully. Owner Cillian instead of madam, then - I'm not too fond of the ring to it. I wonder if it would be strange to correct him. Owner Ophelia? I mislike the use of "Owner"; it sounds odd. Maybe I'll get used to it.

"I'll help you sit up, then," I say, leaning forwards to help lift him from the pillow. He aids with his arms, but I don't know how long it's been since he last walked - maybe he doesn't either. I prop a pillow behind him and allow him to lean back, before offering him the glass. He takes it, his expression unchanging, but doesn't drink.

I stare at him like he's a congenital idiot. Or maybe I'm the fool here. "Do all assets need permission to move and drink?" I challenge, suddenly irritated. "I handed you the glass. One would think you can intellect that you can." I can't have an asset who needs basic commands to do anything, who waits for my permission to breathe. But then, I remind myself, it's not intuitive for him.

"My apologies, Owner Cillian," he says, and he does look somewhat remorseful.

I pause for a moment, thinking of how to phrase what I want to convey correctly. "You may be my asset, but I expect you to have a reasonable degree of self-sufficiency. You won't need my permission when it comes to taking care of your body or personal hygiene: if you need to use the restroom, then go; hydrate yourself; eat when you're hungry. If you want something clarified, I want you to ask me."

"I will do as you wish, Owner Cillian," Ash says. The corners of his mouth turn up slightly, and he appears to be thankful for what I've just said. But I can't imagine that other owners have time to be so pedantic with their assets, and I hope it merely owes to caution in expecting nothing from me.

I nod, and pause. "Then, if you're ready, perhaps you'd like to have a shower and a change of clothes? I'll activate your chip afterwards." The chip is a device equally as horrific as it is formidable, that essentially acts as the linchpin that holds control over the asset and forces them to be completely subject to their owner's whims. At my words, Ash's eyes flare wide in undisguised shock. 

"You intend to keep me, Owner Cillian?" His voice is stunted, and it comes out gruff from the lingering rawness of his transport.

"Why do you think I wouldn't keep you?" I ask, keeping my tone neutral.

Ash looks down at the duvet, and I notice the edge of it is crumpled tightly in his hands. His knuckles flash white. "Because," he says softly. "I remember now being told I was being sold to The Auction. Assets there are... purchased for death."

Given how taboo The Auction's reputation seems, I can't refute it. My mind rushes to construct a reassurance he'll believe, but falls short. 

"Usually, yes. But you are my first asset, and since I find something special in that, I've decided to keep you." 

It's difficult to reconcile that he's been so impassive when he thinks I'll rape and murder him for sport. 

Ash shuffles himself to bow deeply from his position in bed. "Forgive me, Owner Cillian."

"Think nothing of it."

When he straightens himself, I look into his eyes and pray for some sort of change. A drop of hope in an ocean now that he isn't awaiting a cruel fate with bated breath. But though his expression has softened from a release of tension, his eyes are as numb as when he first woke. 


	7. Chapter 6 - Ash

Owner Cillian directs me to a nearby bathroom that I presume is the only one on the floor. It's lavish and beautifully tiled, with pristine, shining metal adorning each implement. Above all, it appears too clean and well-kept to be the servant's bathroom that most large, private ships have fitted, and I'm grateful for the privilege.

She leaves a pair of plain black pyjamas by the sink, and it's a surprise that she neither watches nor joins me as I shower. I wouldn't necessarily mind, but after being transported, my body is too unclean to be worthy of service. The lukewarm water of the shower eases the dull aching of my joints, and I pray the pain in my muscles eases soon.

I feel marginally better as I step out of the shower, and the moments of calm have helped me regain a comfortable headspace before the dreaded chip activation. 

Chip activation is always an exceedingly painful process. It fires a Discipline Level 10 directly through your body, burning it with unspeakable pain. Even the cruellest of Owners who favour chip discipline tend to not exceed levels greater than 8, and I've never had more than 6 as a punishment. I'd gladly rather take a beating then experience the intensity of Level 10 pain. But of course, it's an unavoidable reminder of the complete control the Owners hold over their assets.

I step out of the bathroom after clearing it, the towel folded neatly into the laundry basket. "Thank you for allowing me a shower, Owner Cillian. Would you like to inspect my body?" I find it strange that she didn't before, when I stripped to shower. Her eyes are sharp - she must have suspected how filthy I was.

"Not now," she replies. "I will, later. I'll activate your chip in the living room. Your papers are there."

-

Owner Cillian takes a seat on the double sofa in the living room, and I kneel politely at her feet. She looks a little disturbed, but she allows it without protest, and I chalk it up to her never having really been around an asset before. It's strange to think that all the customs of my life are foreign to her. In the past, I've never properly interacted with a new owner, and they're fairly rare as far as the Leash goes. But as far as I know, the procedure doesn't change. 

The papers on the coffee table in front of her are thick. I hadn't thought that The Auction would bother to send her an entire record, but I suppose I am her first asset. I kneel submissively in front of her, adopting the appropriate position with my hands folded in my lap, waiting.

"Ash," she says after a few minutes of flicking through the papers, "Do you want a different name?"

"My name is whatever you desire, Owner Cillian. Your will is mine," I rehearse. 

"Does your current name bring up any negative connotations for you? Would you feel more comfortable with a new one?"

"It does not, Owner Cillian." I say. "I have no preference."

That seems to satisfy her. She doesn't take well to grovelling, then - a habit I'll need to alter. 

"I'd like you to call me something else."

"Pardon?" I dare to lift my gaze.

"Addressing me as Owner Cillian - I find it jarring. Do owners in the Leash have any other common name conventions?"

I pause. "There are a few, ma'am. Owner Cillian would be the formal, standardised title that most assets will address you by. Many do not change this, even with their own assets. But male Owners will often prefer "master" with their personal assets, and very rarely, "sir", which stricter Owners may view as bordering disrespectful - it's often used privately because of that. For female owners, "mistress" is fairly common. It would not be unusual if I were to address you as Mistress Cillian, if that is what you would prefer. The only alternative I could think of would be my lady. Generally, though, since there are less female owners, I do not think your preference would stand out as much." New owner, I think. I hope I haven't got anything wrong.

"I'm not keen on Mistress. My lady is rather archaic. Would Miss Ophelia do?"

I flinch in surprise. "I fear it would be seen as too casual, but if it is your preference..."

She clicks her tongue. "Lady Ophelia, how about? You can default to "my lady" to make it easier for you."

"Of course, my lady. I'll adjust immediately," I say, lowering my head. She's considering _me_. It's terror-inducing.

"I'm going to activate your chip now. Is that alright?" I nod, my mouth dry. "Would you lie down on the carpet for me?"

I oblige, opening my mouth as she inserts a leather-covered wooden block into it, and brace myself. The first few digits are always manageable, drawing out little more than a few uncomfortable twitches and a slight whimper from my body. Then, the pain builds from that insidious buzz to a cacophony of pain, ripping through my skull as though it wishes to tear it from the inside out. My head throbs in beating waves of pain as the rest of my body follows suit, spasming as it tries to fight an inescapable pain. I always feel my throat first, before I hear myself screaming. And then, in an instant, it subsides.

"Ash?" I hear, my ears buzzing. "Can you hear me? Ash?"

My vision is blurred, but my eyes open. I see my Owner's face, staring down at me. My lady gently removes the block from my mouth, and then, turns me onto my side. One of my legs is bent, my arms together in front of me as my hands are used to cushion my head. I try to speak, but my mouth doesn't move.

"Blink twice if you can hear me." I can do that, at least. "Okay. Good. You're okay. Breathe," I hear her instruct. "I want you to stay here, and rest like this, until you feel ready to move again. Do not rush yourself. Understood?"

I blink twice, lamely.

"Rest for now," she repeats. "Take the time you need."


	8. Chapter 7 - Ophelia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slightly delayed chapter this week! It's a tad longer than the others to compensate for it.
> 
> I'd like to say a huge thank you to Ryoko for referencing my fic in the latest update of The Long Leash. Hopefully this means that any newcomers will be taken directly to her amazing works through a link at the bottom of the chapter now! Again, I can't recommend her series highly enough: please do check it out if it sounds like something you're interested in!
> 
> Enjoy the chapter :)

After moving Ash into the recovery position, I retreat from the room. It's likely he won't move for a while, and I need to get away.

I collapse into an armchair in my bedroom as I try to process what happened. Music - I turn to one of the ship's panels and play a random compositions I often use as background noise to calm myself. The reflective melody of the piano doesn't erase the image of him, spasming in agony against the floor, because of me. I try to keep the bile from my throat. I did that. I chose that.

But it's over now.

I close my eyes and clear my head.

With that, I sweep all the thoughts from my mind. Now isn't the time for self-pity, and I have to keep going.

Ash is exhausted from his transport, and notably underweight. Now that his chip has been activated, I can fetch him a warm meal - something to set the tone for the rest of his time as my asset. I purchased some freshly baked sourdough from the satellite, and decide a simple seafood chowder would pair nicely with it. Maybe some fruit, too.

I pour the pre-chopped ingredients into a saucepan, the regular motions calming me already. It doesn't take long until the preparation stage is finished and I can leave it to simmer.

Back in the lounge, Ash is lying on his side, his breathing steadier. I kneel in front of him, and he jerks his head away immediately to look at me.

"Better?" I ask.

"Yes, my lady, thank you."

I help him sit up against the sofa. "Well done," I say, offering him a glass of water which he gladly finishes. "I suppose you can relax, now that the hardest part of our introduction is over." I stand, and as I do so, Ash takes the opportunity to place the glass on the table, adjusting his own sedentary position so that he is kneeling submissively in front of me.

"I'm grateful for your consideration, my lady," he says, his head bowed. "Might I... May I begin serving you now?" I think he's truly making an effort to make the words sound eager, because their lightness starkly contrast the lack of inflection he's had since he woke up.

"Actually," I say. "There is something you can do for me. Follow me." It's sooner than I'd expected, but we might as well do it now.

-

It doesn''t take long to reach my music room. An authentic grand piano lies in the centre, probably the single most expensive piece of furniture on the ship. Pianos are exceedingly rare, a mark of the elite and wealthy given they're such an archaic instrument now. With modern sound technology, they're all but a superfluous ornament.

I'd turned down a ship twice as large for my brother to agree to poach one for me.

"Your file says you're proficient at classical instruments," I explain. "I want to assess the level you're at, but please don't worry - it's nothing serious, just a way for me to gauge your abilities."

"Of course. I hope my humble skills will be to your satisfaction," he says with a nervous shake to his voice. It can't be helped, I suppose.

I begin easily, playing a middle C. "What's this note?" He answers correctly. I repeat the exercise a few times, and he gets more than half correct, which is pleasing. Not perfect pitch, but a strong grasp of the notes, at least. I do a few more, asking him to name the note three down or four up, the middle note of a chord, what key they're in, and so on.

His theory isn't stellar, though it's clear how hard he's trying. In fact, as I make the exercises more complicated, it becomes evident that he's struggling. I turn to him.

  
"How long has it been since you last played?"

"My previous master would occasionally allow me to play for him at his request, but... I fear I was allowed insufficient time to practice. But I do have complex pieces memorised - almost to perfection, my lady, for events and-"

"Is that a request to show me?" It's the wrong thing to ask, because even though he goes rigidly still, I can practically see him recoiling in embarrassment. Contrary to my expectations, though, he simply lowers his head.

"I didn't mean to imply you've done anything wrong, Ash. Here - please be careful with it." I move off the stool.

"Do you have any requests for the style of piece you'd like me to play?" He asks as he adjusts the seat.

"Anything that you think shows off the extent of your capabilities. Maybe something with character. Do a few scales to warm yourself up, though."

He obliges, and in a few moments, he's ready to start.

Then, the first notes of Chopin's "Wrong Note" etude begin.

I recognise them immediately for their distinct staccato dissonance - a melody of reigned in chaos alike no other piece. It's certainly a piece with character and complexity. The odd, mismatching chords require awkward, almost flick-like wrist movements at great speed to keep up with the pace of the piece. Yet, all things considered, Ash plays the first section impeccably well.

Every note is correct, his sense of rhythm is consistent and smooth. His dynamics and emphasis aren't quite there, which I attribute to the weeks it's been since he played properly, and I suspect he's not engaging with the piece in the way a passionate musician would. Still - I'm pleasantly surprised by his abilities.

That is, until, the slower section of the piece is reached. Suddenly, his fingers are stumbling over each other, and the notes of his right hand aren't lining up with his left. He tries to recover, but with limited success.

The momentum of the piece is lost.

I place a hand on his shoulder. "I've heard enough - you've done well to learn the piece so thoroughly."

Ash stiffens. "I'm sorry, my lady. Please, I promise if I try again, I-"

"It's alright," I say, trying to balance firm yet gentle in my tone. "Really. I'm impressed by your abilities. And since I asked you to play on the spot, without enough time to rehearse the piece or warm up properly, it was never going to be perfect." That makes him relax a little, so I continue. "In fact, that leaves only one thing left I'd like you to do - though after your performance, I'm sure you'll knock it out of the park." On the tablet attached to the piano's music stand, I bring up a simple, two-line melody I composed. I'd made it fairly easy just in case, and in the context of Ash's etude, it should be a walk in the park. "Could you sight read this for me? I'll give you a few minutes." 

On my tablet, I check the kitchen, where the chowder has automatically been turned off by the ship's timer system. I'm starving, and I expect Ash is too. I'll be glad to eat after this.

"Whenever you're ready," I say.

A few moments elapse, and - nothing. Then, a minute. Two.

"Ash?" I ask. No response.

"I-I can't."

"What's wrong?" I say, utterly confused. It should be child's play. I move over to him.

"Mistress... My- Owner Cillian," he says pleadingly. "I'm sorry. I really am- I can't- I can't read music. I can't."


	9. Chapter 8 - Ash

I'm an idiot. Such an idiot. I'd thought if I could play the etude correctly, she would leave the examination be, and I could explain myself to her at a later date, once I'd proved myself - of course, _of course_ sight reading would be part of it. Why wouldn't it be? My body is too weak for another full-on beating. If she were to take a whip to my back, I don't know if I'd-

It's clear my Mistress loves music. Her face lit up upon entering the room, and I've never even seen an authentic, wooden grand piano - I'm used to cheap, glossy plastic, with the only true expense being on the notes and wiring - and it's perfectly tuned. The short piece she asked me to sight-read even has her initials at the top. It's easy - even a musically illiterate idiot like me can recognise the gaps between the notes and lack of proper chords - and I can't even play it for her.

I couldn't even play her my best piece.

It's shameful.

I'm vaguely aware that, practically on auto-pilot, my body has moved from the piano stool and lowered itself to the ground.

"Ash, what's wrong?"

I swallow. "I'm sorry, my lady. I'm inept at reading sheet music. It takes me a long time to interpret a score, partly because of my defect." I look down and brace myself for - something. Usually when I fail this terribly, I'm met with some sort of blow. The hardest part about receiving it is knowing it's coming and forcing yourself not to move away - I've learned to just obstruct my vision entirely.

"Oh," Lady Ophelia says, realisation in her voice. A pause. "How careless of me. I didn't mean to upset you, Ash. You've done well with this spontaneity regardless. Let's get something to eat, shall we?"

Another test, but I can't bring myself to care about it.

-

When I find that there isn't a table of ingredients for me to prepare or a recipe to reconstruct, I feel a meagre sense of relief, if only because I know I don't have the energy to do it well. Serving the food, at least, will be a less intensive task.

"My lady, might you direct me to the cutlery so that I may serve you?"

"No need," she says, fishing a porcelain bowl out of a cupboard. "Perhaps another time."

I see her take the lid off the steaming pot, and I recognise the smell to be some sort of creamy stew. A hearty chowder, I deduce from the generous chunks as she ladles it into the bowl. Seafood is rare, but it makes sense my mistress is wealthy - it's good, even. 

She sets the bowl on the table, and looks at me expectantly. I stiffen, and realise that I haven't yet moved from the doorway of the kitchen.

I mutter apologies as I move upon instinct, straight towards the drawer I expect is the correct size to store the silver. I'm pleasantly surprised to find I'm correct, and, in another move of boldness or idiocy, to the drawer below it where linen napkins would be. I'm correct on both counts, and I lay the table as I've been trained. There are far too many utensils for a single dish, but it doesn't matter - they say it's about presentation, after all. I pull out the chair for my mistress, opening the napkin ready to put it in her lap, and-

"Ash? What are you doing?"

"Preparing the table for you, mistress?" She had done half the work for me, it's the least I could do.

"Aren't you hungry?" 

I don't know what to answer, so I don't.

"What do you normally do, when your owner is eating? What were you trained to do?"

I understand now - perhaps she hasn't seen asset behaviour before. "Usually, my lady, I have the role of a chef and butler. I prepare the food, lay the table to the proper standards, and serve it. During meals, I am to wait several steps behind my owner's chair, slightly to the right. Preferably against a wall, and be ready in case they need anything."

"Did you ever eat with them?" she asks.

"I-it would have been improper."

"I see," she says, and I worry I've displeased her. But, she slowly sits down, observing me. I do as instructed, and demonstrate the attentive position. "My previous owner requested I stand to serve him faster if needed," I explain. "But I will kneel if you prefer. Most assets do."

"No need," she says. "Come forward. I'd like for you to talk to me while I eat, then."

"Of course, my lady." 

-

About half an hour later, after elucidating to Lady Ophelia the customs of domestic assets in the Leash and being given permission to use the kitchen, she stands.

"Thank you for being a lovely attendant. I want you to help yourself to the chowder - as much as you like. Feel free to use the table, the cutlery - as I did. Understood?"

It's generous, far more generous than any other owners I've been with. "Yes, my lady. Thank you."

"Then, explore the ship to your heart's content, or return to your room - whatever you like. We'll discuss your duties tomorrow. Any questions?"

I shake my head. "Goodnight, Lady Ophelia." I feel a rush of anxiety as I say her first name, but she seems pleased.

"Goodnight."

When I taste the seafood chowder, I'm tentative - cautious. But while it smells delicious, I find my ability to taste it thoroughly numbed.


	10. Chapter 9 - Ophelia

The next few days are peaceful, if uneventful.

I talk to Ash about his previous domestic duties, and he primarily expressed an interest in maintaining the ship to my tastes. Without much else to go on, I set him up with a rota of chores, from dusting to tending to the ship's hydroponics. It seemed that, when he asked permission to use the kitchen, he took it as an allowance for him to prepare my meals and serve me formally. Though I've been tempted to simply ask him to sit with me, I doubt it would be in his best interest. For now, I've decided that I'll follow the customs he's known as absolute. 

It was hard enough to convince him he should eat the same food he prepares for me. The rest can come later.

I make small talk with him, but his answers are brief and polite. He says enough that I can't pick him up on it, but in a way that gives me little genuine insight into him. So, during the adjustment period, I've learned little of note other than his culinary tastes and a few of the pieces he can play. Fresh fruit, I've inferred, is a luxury for assets that he much enjoys. 

In his spare time, I hear him practising in the music room. I haven't broached the topic of reading music again, since he becomes tense as soon as I mention playing. I will soon, though. It was foolish of me to forget he was dyslexic, but I can't help but wonder how he became such a skilled pianist if he struggles with it.

His apathy and tension hasn't entirely dissipated, but he's been warming up to me a little.

I wonder if the visit from my brother will change it.

Ash waits patiently behind me, hands folded in front of him, as my brother's jump ship docks. I had informed him of my brother's visit, as well as given him the vaguest implication that our relationship is, to say the least, strained. This morning, he seemed even more resigned than usual as he served me breakfast, though he hasn't seemed very out of the ordinary beyond that. 

Vasilis steps into the entrance antechamber with a charming smile plastered across his face. "Sister, dearest," he says as his entire demeanour - correctly, I remind myself - indicates he owns the place. He drops the facade immediately as his eyes settle on Ash. "That's the one? Pleasure, I assume."

As he examines him, I glance at the tall asset behind him. I had initially dismissed him as no more than my brother's assistant, a secretary who he dressed as a butler according to some superfluous sense of fashion, but now I know better. A slave he parades as a person. I recall the confident way he had served me on my brother's ship, like an equal. Now, the submission he exudes is blatant.

"Domestic. From The Auction." I correct.

The corners of his lips turn down. "I should have realised you'd be stupid enough to go there, but I hadn't thought you would _actually_ buy something." He steps past me, his asset following. "Trust me when I say that one won't be worth anything. I'll fund you a new one." 

I scowl as I'm forced to follow him. He knows the ship's entire layout, so I assume he has a destination in mind. "No. It would be a waste of time and effort to get a new one, and he's been perfectly accep-"

"You can't bring a broken asset like that into the social circles of the Leash." In other words, Vasilis will be directing me towards specific groups to gain information on his behalf. If Ash were to form even the slightest barrier to a strong impression, he should be replaced - but then, it almost defeats the point in giving me autonomy in the first place.

"Then you should have given me an asset," I say irritably.

"It would seem so, wouldn't it?"

Vasilis stops at the lounge, and we seat ourselves at opposite ends of the room. Our assets kneel by our sides, but the air isn't yet charged.

"Has your asset serviced you yet?"

"In what way," I ask dryly.

"Pleasure, of course. It's usually custom for them to do so within a week. In larger ships, other assets would regard them as a failure if they don't." I glance at Ash's tense form. "And it tends to be a... strongly encouraged guideline when they're trained."

It's a ploy to get under my skin. "I've little interest in that. And he's a domestic."

"You'll fit in much more easily if you develop one. And all assets are used for pleasure," Vasilis says, as though he's explaining a basic concept to a child. "Pleasure assets just tend to be more professional about it." 

"We'll see."

"Speaking of categories - this brings me on to my first task for you. Fill out your asset slots, one of each type. I'll give you six months, and reasonable funding - but they need to be quality assets. Not like the one you've chosen here. Go to a dealer; then you won't make a mistake like this one again." 

"I don't want any more assets."

"Tough."

I've lived alone practically all my life: I've never been one for communal living. And as much as I hate to admit it, I've not adapted well to sharing my living space with another, even if he is in theory a backdrop ornament. It's felt intrusive and stifling, and with no need for another asset to support my lifestyle, I'd always assumed that one would be enough. That one asset was merely a means to the end of being a true member of the Leash.

"Is that all?" I snap.

"Not quite," he smiles. "There's an owner I'd like you to meet with. An old friend of yours, actually. I've left the information on your key card. Oh, and get your asset to dust this place; clearly they don't know how to change an air filter."

I look at the information Vasilis has left with me - at a name of someone I'd never expected to hear of again. How long ago? How many years? Am I not a forgotten memory to them now?

"And," he says, breaking my thoughts. "I'd like to sample your asset."


End file.
